


Not Alone

by Roadgoeseveronandon



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Period-Typical Racism, Post-Rose Creek, Red needs some love, very light Billy/Goody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-09-23 13:09:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9658754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roadgoeseveronandon/pseuds/Roadgoeseveronandon
Summary: He was late.





	1. Chapter 1

He was late.

He often wandered off, to look ahead or check behind. But he was always back by sun down as they made camp or by dawn before they continued on. Sam Chisolm glanced at his pocket watch again. It was three hours past sun rise, two hours past when they should have been on the road. The seven were on the trail of a gang of thieves. Sam looked around at the rest of their motley crew.

Two months out of Rose Creek, the scars from their battle was still evident. Faraday, occupying his hands by brushing his stallion, Jack, leaned heavily on his left leg. The young man’s right leg still pained him after taking a couple of bullets to it. One bullet remained in his leg when it proved too deep and too difficult to remove. Goodnight, Billy, and Vasquez sat around what remained of last night’s fire. Billy reached toward the fire and picked up the coffee pitcher. Billy pour two cups and passed one to Goodnight. The sharpshooter reached rigidly to take it, thanking Billy with a slight quirk of his lips when the man held on to the cup for a few seconds longer to ensure he had it. More than one of Mrs. Cullen’s glasses or plates had been broken when Goodnight’s grip was not as strong as he thought. Through the Colorado woods, Sam couldn’t see. However, he knew that Horne was down by the river, filling canteens.

“Think, he’s gone for good?” Faraday asked, over his shoulder. Sam wasn’t sure of the answer. Red Harvest had never shared his reasons for doing anything, even why he had joined the fight against Bogue. A silent shadow that was quick and unpredictable, but always willing to follow Sam’s word.

So far.

Sam watched as Goodnight heaved himself upright, balancing with a hand on Billy’s shoulder. The Cajun, still stiff from a night of sleeping out in the open, walked over to him. Quietly he said, “We do have to consider that the boy has decided to move on.” No one had seen Red Harvest since mid-afternoon the day before when the decided to stop early after finding a nice clearing with good cover. It was one of the lengthiest times the Indian had been gone since the seven had left Rose Creek.

“It hasn’t been too long,” Sam said, despite himself. He checked his watch again. Although the youngest of them, by several years, Red Harvest was a capable fighter. He held his own in the fight against Bogue. He covered Sam as he rode Shade throughout the square and saved Horne’s life from Denali before the he could loose a killing arrow. Red Harvest had walked away with only a cut to the cheek.

“He didn’t say nothing,” Faraday added.

“Doubt, el niño would say adios. Guero.” Vasquez said, around a mouthful of beans.

“We don’t know that he left,” Sam interjected. However, Red Harvest had not left any of his supplies in the camp Sam could use as proof of his intent to return. The warrior appeared to not have any ties with the group, not truly “bonding” with anyone in particular.

“We don’t know he didn’t,” Billy countered, taking a sip of coffee. Sam learned quickly that while Goodnight was a master of tales and talk, Billy was ever the realist. He wondered what brought such two opposites together.

“Gentlemen, we may have a problem,” Horne’s high pitched voice suddenly carried into the camp. The man walked in carrying the straps to several canteens in one hand and the reins to a horse in the other. Red Harvest’s grey gelding obediently followed Horne. It was a placid beast with a calm demeanor, the paint on it had long since worn off. Red Harvest diligently cared for the horse, whose name Sam still hadn’t managed to learn. Seeing the horse without its rider was worrisome, but more so was the rivets of dried blood that ran down its hind legs.

“Oh, shit,” Faraday huffed, breaking the silence. “Looks like Red didn’t scamper off.” The seven gathered around the gelding. Vasquez took the reins, speaking softly to the animal when it shied away at the crowding. Sam rested a hand on the grey flank, fingers hovering over the deep furrow that ran across the dappled rump.

“Did you see anything?” He questioned Horne.

“No, the poor beast just walked up to me. He came from the north.”

“A bullet made that, I bet my life on it,” Goodnight added.

“Then what made this?” Vasquez asked. Turning around, Sam watched as Billy light traced the splattered blood drops that covered the horse’s neck and shoulder. Wordlessly, the men all came to the conclusion that blood on the neck couldn’t have come from the only wound on the horse’s back. It had to have come from a different source.

Red Harvest.

“Gear up,” Sam ordered. Within minutes, the group had packed and were following Horne’s lead as the tracker retraced the gelding’s steps.

They had been riding for some time before coming upon a disturbing site. The dirt was scuffed and churned like a fight had taken place. What drew the eye was a puddle of congealed blood in the path.

“Damn, who could have managed to get the drop on Red?” Faraday asked to no one in particular. A short searched revealed an arrow with the tip broken off and some more splattering of blood. “Was it other redskins?”

“No, over here,” Vasquez said. The Mexican was kneeling in the dirt. The patch of grass next to him was bunched up and the clear edge of a boot heel could be seen.

Faraday flapped his arms in frustration, “They kill em?” The burn scars on his face, glistened in the sunlight.

“No body,” Billy said.

“Hunters would not have taken a body with them,” Horne said hopefully.

“Then it begs the question,” Goodnight began. “Why take a random Indian boy?”

Sam looked around at the group, a deadly sureness in his voice. “We are going to find out.”

 

Red Harvest woke slowly. His head ached and there was a sharp, constant pain in his side. Angry voices drifted over to him and he stiffened slightly, feeling coarse rope dig into his wrists behind his back. Red Harvest cracked his eyes or one of his eyes, the other was crusted shut. Probably with blood if the pounding in his head was any indication.

It was still bright outside. So he had only lost a few hours or an entire night. Blurry figures stood several feet away from him, gesturing wildly. They were talking quickly with thick drawls that made it difficult for him to understand. A few words he knew were curses, many of which he had picked up from Faraday.

“Just kill the rat and be done with it,” one voice said. The memories came back to him then.

Red Harvest had been foolish. While the other had stopped when they found a defendable place to camp, he had continued on trailing the men they were following and learning the lay of the land. So intent on his prey, he failed to realize that he cornered himself in a valley. He felt the bullet cut through his side before the sound of the shot bounced off and around the valley wall. Seconds later he was on the ground, having been thrown from Nʉetʉ’s back in the horse’s pain and panic.

Red Harvest was on his feet, drawing and loosing an arrow at a haggard man pointing a pistol at him. His side stung from the bullet wound, blood soaking into his leggings. His shot was true, striking the gun out of the man’s hand. The head of the arrow snapped off as it connected with the valley wall. With a yell, Red Harvest charged, slamming his tomahawk into the man’s chest. Seconds had passed from the shot to the man’s death.

“Johnny!!” A voice shouted behind him. Red Harvest turned to the butt of rifle connecting with his face. The blow laid him out. He twist on the ground, trying to get his limbs under him. His instincts were screaming at him to get up and defend himself. A second blow to the head sent him into the darkness.

“Look whose decide to join us,” A man said, followed by a kick to Red Harvest’s stomach. The pain forced the breath from his lungs and he gaped like a fish for a moment trying to get it back. A hand tried to twist into his hair, but he had it cropped too short for the man to get a grip.

Red Harvest had learned.

Instead the man grabbed his vest and forced him to look up. The man was equally as ragged as the man he had killed. The man’s pasty skin was dirty and his teeth were yellowed. Red Harvest tried not to breathe too deeply and it was not just because of his wound. “You bastard, are going to pay for killing my brother.”

“Just kill him and let’s go, Dick.” Another spoke. Red Harvest glanced over the man’s shoulder, to see two other men standing a few feet away. A blanket covered bundle just beyond that.

“Shut up, Adam. I want to hear him say what he did,” Dick responded, giving Red Harvest a shake.

Red Harvest said nothing, glaring instead. He had found that fate worked in his favor by letting the white man assume that he couldn’t understand them. His reason solidified once again as the last man, a short blonde, said “He probably too stupid to know what cher saying any how.”

Dick looked a Red Harvest with an ugly sneer, dropping him back to ground and loomed over him. “Then I’ll make him feel it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what happens when you have two exams and you don't want to study. Please let me know what you think.


	2. Chapter 2

In the end, it wasn’t particularly difficult to catch up to the men that had taken Red Harvest. They didn’t travel too far from where the fight had taken place, stopping near the river. It appeared that they hadn’t made the connection that Red Harvest was a part of a larger group or that his group was tracking them to begin with. For it was the same group of thieves that the seven were hunting. However, there was one less than what there was supposed to, but judging by the body and the way one man was beating into their youngest. It was not hard to figure out why they had taken Red Harvest.

“Let’s shoot them and get him already,” Faraday whispered impatiently to Sam.

“Not yet,” Sam breathed back, “We make the wrong move, and it’ll cost Red Harvest. We need a plan.”

Billy shifted slightly, anticipation building in his stomach for the upcoming fight. However, fate was against them as before plan could be voiced, one of the men not hurting Red Harvest seemed to lose his patience.

Billy watched as a tall, dark haired man walk over to his companion and Red Harvest, “Enough of this,” He could hear. The man dragged Red Harvest to his feet. The Indian swayed strongly, but kept standing, he was covered in blood and bruises. He didn’t blink as the man shoved a pistol in his face, only jutting his chin out.

“Too late,” Goodnight said, shooting the man from their cover. Goodnight was more ready to shoot a man after Rose Creek, but he still had nightmares. The shot hit him in the leg, causing the man to throw his arm up and his shot to go wide. Red Harvest showed a moment of surprise before stumbling back in to the flowing river.

“I got him,” Billy said, ripping off his coat as he darted to the riverbank, ignoring Goodnight calling after him. He could hear another set of footsteps following him as more shots rang out, but he didn’t bother to see who as he dropped his gun belt and kicked off his boots before diving into the river. 

Billy almost gasped at the chill. It was mid-fall and the breath of winter was beginning to lay over the land. Ahead of him, he could see Red Harvest floating limply with the current. Billy kicked hard, reaching out to grasp the unconscious man’s arm. He slipped from his hold for a moment until Billy could get a good grip around Red Harvest’s chest. Billy struggled to the surface, Red Harvest had several inches and at least forty pounds on him. Billy’s strength was starting to wane just from keeping their heads above water. 

The water briefly covered their heads and he choked as it flooded his mouth and nose. The water and rocks buffeted him and Red Harvest, not giving him a chance to swim to shore. Billy wasn’t the strongest swimmer to begin with. Goodnight had taught him during their time together, but he never got in a lot of practice due to swimming lessons always leading to other enjoyable activities.

“Billy!!”

Billy glanced over at the riverbank, watching as Vasquez skirted over the rocky bank trying to keep up with his companions. The Mexican managed to get a few feet in front of them. Lasso in hand, he began to whip it over his head. The loop flew, landing around the Asian’s outstretched hand. Vasquez braced himself, preparing for the weight of his friends in the water.

Billy cried out as the rope tightened over his arm. He swallowed more water as his shoulder blossomed in pain with a pop. Vasquez was forced to sit to keep from being pulled over as Billy and Red Harvest were drawn into the more gentle current of the shore. With difficulty, Vasquez drug them out of the water. Billy lay on his back still half in the water, grasping his shoulder tightly while Vasquez cut Red Harvest bonds.

“He not breathing,” Vasquez said, turning the boy on his side rubbing his chest and back. For a few horrible minutes, he didn’t respond. The others caught up to them, none of them worse for wear. The gang of thieves were easy to overtake, outnumbered and outgunned. Faraday skipped every couple steps to keep up the pace with his bum leg and Goodnight went straight for Billy, helping the other man sit up. Vasquez began pounding on Red Harvest back. Suddenly the limp body convulsed and Red Harvest began coughing up water.

“Thank the lord,” Horne said. The large man leaned over to help bind the gunshot wound to Red Harvest’s side. Red Harvest only grimaced slightly when Horne and Vasquez lifted him between them.

“Come on, let get camp together.” Sam said, “These two are going to catch a chill.” Billy started to argue, but he choked on his words when Faraday touched his arm trying to help him to his feet.

“I’m fine, Goody.” Billy rasped, accent thicker with pain. Goodnight ignored him as he pulled off his cravat, binding Billy’s arm to his chest.

“Humor me, Cher.”

A short time later, a fire was started and their supplies were set up. Sam and Vasquez worked together to strip Red Harvest of his soaked clothing and doing their best to patch up his injuries. The gunshot was the worst and bled sluggishly, but there was a multitude of cuts and bruises all over. One unsettling injury were 3 parallel cuts across the tan chest, deliberately placed. The Indian’s face was a mess with one eye swollen shut and covered in enough blood to look like he was wearing his war paint. Sam frowned as he tried to stitch the wound closed. Shade had donated a few tail hairs to use as thread. It was difficult. The needle kept slipping from his fingers, but he finally managed to tie off both sides of the wound.

“Think he would be making more noise, no?” Vasquez asked as they finally got him settled, wrapped in a multiple bedrolls as close to the fire as possible. Red Harvest had barely made a sound while they were treating him.

“Hopefully that means he is not in too much pain. We have nothing to give either of them.” Sam knew better, had seen enough in the war. Only saying so to try and put the others at ease.

“I doubt Billy would take anything,” Goodnight said softly. He and Faraday had reset Billy’s shoulder, the procedure causing him to pale further and left him on the edge of consciousness. He was now wrapped his and Goodnight’s bedding, resting against the man’s chest. 

If Goody was leading with the implication of just trying to keep Billy warm, well Sam wasn’t going to contradict him.

Silence carried around the camp, each man lost in his own mind as they waited for Red Harvest to show some sign of life. “Kinda shitty of us, ain’t it?” Faraday suddenly asked, absentmindedly flipping his cards around, twirling them between his fingers.

“What is, Guerito?” 

“That we thought, he done run off before we’d consider that he was in trouble.” Faraday looked up from the fire. “He looked surprised. Like he didn’t expect us to come for him.”

“A sobering thought,” Horne mumbled. “We must endeavor to do better by him and each other.”

Sam was nodding, “first we get him better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: During the war, when running out of medical supplies. Horse hair was used as thread to stitch wounds. It was boiled before use to make it softer and more flexible. This inadvertently helped disinfect it and keep infection at bay in the cesspool that was the Civil War.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: there is some talk about questioning of religion. There is no slander though.

Morning came, but Red Harvest still had not woken. The others occupied themselves with various chores of cleaning guns, fixing tack, gathering firewood. Horne had left to try and catch some food. Billy was up and about, his arm in a sling. Goodnight had used a second cloth to hold the arm against his chest, tying it behind Billy’s back so he couldn’t take the sling off on his own.

Sam rested the back of his hand against Red Harvest’s forehead. He has warmed up from his soaking in the river, but now was getting too hot. Sam drummed his fingers against his knee. Red Harvest needed help, probably more than they had the skills to provide. The closest town was two days away, longer if they had to transport Red Harvest there. He knew it would be difficult trying to get a doctor to him, especially for an Indian.

“Wh-,” A soft whisper floated up to him. Looking down, Sam saw dark eyes staring back at him. Red Harvest swallowed thickly, hesitating for only a moment before accepting the drink Sam offered. Trying again, Red Harvest asked, “What are you doing?” His face was blank, showing no emotion under the swelling and discoloration. The only sign of pain was the crinkling of his good eye and pursed lips.

Sam considered his answer for a moment, trying not to read too much into the question. “Taking care of you,” he decided to go with the obvious.

“Good morning, Sunshine,” Faraday practically shouted, leaning over Red Harvest. Red Harvest wiggled uncomfortably, trying weakly to get free of the blankets he was bundled in. “Take it easy there,” Faraday reached out to help, but was stopped by Sam, who noticed Red Harvest watching the Irishman’s hands rather than his face.

Red Harvest forced himself into a sitting position with no small amount of effort. His arms were shaking with the lack of strength. He breathed shallowly, his wounds were covered and his ribs were bound. Looking around, he noticed the others had all stopped what they were doing to watch him. Vasquez offered him a small nod. Red Harvest said nothing, only continuing to attempt to stand.

“Woah, there is no rush.” Sam put a hand on his shoulder, “Stay still.” Red Harvest glared at him, biting a sharp sentence in Comanche. Sam looked slightly exasperated, but shifted into a better position. He called Faraday over to Red Harvest’s other side. Red Harvest continued to glare at Sam. “If you want to get up, this is how it’s going to happen,” Sam declared firmly.

His needs outweighing his stubbornness. Red Harvest relented, grabbing Faraday’s hand and the two of them got him to his feet. Red Harvest had no choice but to hold on to them for a moment as he gained his balance, annoyed at his weakness. He briefly plucked at the pants that were not his own.

“Your welcome,” Faraday supplied cheekily.

“Yours were a little less than suitable,” Goodnight explained. More like soaked in blood and torn.

Red Harvest held his silence, walking off, barefoot, into the woods.

“Que?”

“Bush,” Sam answered.

After a few moments, Red Harvest shuffled back into camp. He was beginning to shake slightly and was covered in a sheet of sweat. He walked past the bedding and continue to shamble to the horses. He steps became smaller and smaller and he had a hand braced on his wound, but continued on determined. Vasquez guessed his goal and unhobbled the younger man’s grey gelding, meeting him partway. With an appreciating nod, Red Harvest reached out to touch the muscled neck. The blood had been washed from the grey hide and the wound to the rump had also been cleaned and covered with a liniment Horne had made from local plants. “Nʉetʉ,” Red Harvest said softly. He smiled ever so slightly when his loyal friend nickered at him in returned, snuffling his hand. Although he was surprised by his comrades’ appearance, Red Harvest was unspeakably glad that his horse had made it to those that would care for him.

“What does it mean?” Goodnight questioned.

When Red Harvest did not answer, he looked to Sam, who shrugged. “I’m not familiar with that word, Goody,” Sam responded.

Red Harvest turned back to the group, leaning into Nʉetʉ’s shoulder. He did not know the English word for his horse’s name, so instead waved his arm and made a whishing noise. After a moment of contemplation, Goodnight guessed, “River?”

“No,” Red Harvest answered. He knew that word. He pointed to the trees as they began to sway.

“Wind,” Billy said.

Red Harvest watched the trees, following their movement. The next thing he knew, he was on his knees. Sam was in front of him and Horne has appeared at his shoulder. Without any contribution from him, he is laid back down on the bedrolls by the fire. Sam lays a cool cloth on his forehead, wiping the sweat from his face. The others start to prep Horne’s catches, trying to give the proud man some privacy.

“I will ride in the morning,” Red Harvest said softly. He would not be a burden.

“Can you even ride,” Faraday asked doubtful.

“Yes,” The answer was bit out.

“We’ll move when you are ready,” Sam interjected.

Horne leaned in closer to the pair, “If you’re up for it, want something to eat.” It was likely Red Harvest had not eaten in almost two days. Although he seemed interested in the rabbits cooking, Red Harvest was asleep again by the time they were ready. Little beads of sweat were collecting on his forehead.

“What now?” Vasquez asked.

“When he’s better we move on,” Sam answered surely.

“And if he doesn’t get better?” Goodnight challenged.

“We’ll get him to Bronze Banks and get a doctor.”

“If we can,” Faraday said, “It’ll cost a lot for anyone to be willing to look at him.”

Billy, ever insightful, said “The thieves, collect their bounty and use that.”

“And get him new supplies” Horne added.

 

It was hot. So hot. It was suffocating. He twisted and turned and as soon as he managed to get free enough for a cool breath, he was swaddled again in that unbearable heat. The voices carried over him. They wanted to hurt him, kill him. He fought, but he was held down. He was drowning.

He woke to starlight. Red Harvest looked around as best he could. The fire burned low, the others were stretched out around. He turned to the other side to see Horne, mumbling quietly to himself. Offering prayers to his god.

Red Harvest wasn’t sure of what to think about Horne’s God. He knew the others, besides Billy, all had some level of faith in the Christian God. Even Faraday had a small degree of humbleness to this all powerful being. The only thing Red Harvest knew of him was death. When the white man brought their God with them. They also brought suffering and ridicule when his people choose to stick with their beliefs. However, the men he found himself with were good men. How could good men put their faith in a being that only caused pain? There had to be more that he hasn’t of this path. Was this God like the spirits of his people? He had much to consider.

He refocused to Horne leaning over, speaking to him. “– you feeling?”

“What?”

Horne smiled slightly and patiently repeated himself, “How are you feeling?”

Red Harvest thought a moment, “Like shit.” He whispered, taking a page out of Faraday’s book.

Horne’s face frowned sympathetically, “You have a bad fever.” Red Harvest’s temperature had remained high. The gun shot had begun to bleed again when he collapsed. None of the stitches had torn, thankfully, just strained from the movement. The fear of infection was beginning to form.

Red Harvest remained quiet as he watched Horne poured something into a cup. “Here, this willow bark tea should help.” The tea was warm, with a slightly bitter taste. Red Harvest had had something similar from the medicine woman of his village, after he had an altercation with some fur traders when he was a boy.

That was not a pleasant memory to dwell on.

A shuffling sound caught his attention. Red Harvest turned his head to see Vasquez shift in his sleep on the ground. Looking around, it was then he realized that he was laying on most everyone’s blankets. He didn’t need them and he told Horne as much. “A little time without will not harm us.” He answered sagely. “Especially if it helps you.”

Red Harvest did not agree. He has never needed help. He could protect and feed himself. He would help others, but he could not afford to rely on them.

His discontent must have shown on his face as Horne began speaking again. “You remind of my daughter.” He smiled wistfully, looking at a sight years past. “She was calamity. Fierce and strong with fire in her heart. She fell one time, playing in the woods, and twisted her ankle. It was some of the longest days for my wife and me, trying to keep her still to allow it to heal.” Horne took a deep breathe, “I used to think nothing could stop her.” 

The large man reached out and patted Red Harvest softly on the arm through the blankets. “You should get some rest, son.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Red has some issues. Red's horse's name is via Google, so I am unsure of its accuracy. But it is a beautiful horse.
> 
> Willow bark has been used for centuries as a pain reliever and anti-inflammatory. It has a similar component to aspirin.
> 
> This is not Red/Horne, if anything its more of a Grandpa Horne relationship. Please let me know what you think. I have found it a little difficult to write so many emotionally constipated characters. Also, I've been forgetting to mention, I imagine Red in his mid twenties and the next youngest is Faraday in his early to mid-thirties. Then Vasquez, Goody, Billy, Sam, and Horne last in his late 50s.


	4. Chapter 4

It was quiet in camp. Sam had taken Faraday and Goodnight to Bronze Banks to collect the bounties on the Buggy gang. Vasquez was, interestingly, not much of a talker without Faraday or Goody to spur him into an argument. Horne has become a little bit more of a conversationalist since joining the seven, though not by much. Billy couldn’t really make a point of it as he was never known to be a chatterbox either. Mostly to Goody’s frustration, his partner could hold a conversation from sun up to sundown and Billy wouldn’t need to say a word. He had heard the same stories so many times he could recite them as his own. Billy smiled slightly to himself as he sat on babysitting duty.

Billy was keeping an eye out for Red Harvest as the kid slept. He one handedly maintained the fire and stirred food nearby. He decided to wait to ask one of the others to untie the sling holding his tender arm to his body. He wanted to ensure Goody was too far away to sweep in and try to scold him for removing it. He could free himself if he tried. Goody, surprisingly, forgot how flexible Billy could be. However, he was sore enough to not make the effort worth it, not that he would admit it.

Billy froze for a moment as he heard a sigh beside him. Red Harvest’s fever persisted and he had not woken since talking to Horne last night. Vasquez and Horne had managed to pour some water into him, but he still had not stirred. If something didn’t change soon, Billy feared that the boy would not recover. He had seen men on the railroad succumb to what appeared to be simple injuries, almost overnight.

Billy reached out, hesitating a moment before brushing his hand against Red Harvest’s forehead. He called to him as Red Harvest shifted more, eventually clawing his way to consciousness. The young man was shaking slightly from the fever as his glazed eyes flickered around. Billy waited patiently for Red Harvest to focus on him. Billy said nothing when the younger man turned his face out of his hand.

“How are you feeling, mi amigo?” Vasquez asked, walking over when he noticed Billy’s attentions.

“Hot”

“Can you move?” Billy asked. He doubted, even if Red Harvest could, it wouldn’t be well or for very long. Together, along with Horne, they got Red Harvest up and his bandages changed. The young man bore the manipulations with good grace, considering his standoffish nature. Billy could sympathize, he never handled being stuck on his back well. Goody tried to be patient whenever the situation occurred, but the man had too much Cajun fire. It eventually boiled down to them snapping at each other until Billy was well enough to make it up to him.

Chisolm’s plan was for his group to ride to town and back. Chisolm’s group would bring supplies and painkillers.

“Necesitas medicina,” Vasquez argued adamantly. The Mexican ended up as the de facto leader of the remaining group. Red Harvest wanted nothing to do with a white man doctor, insisting that he would be fine. But Vasquez was right. The gunshot wound still wept, the tissue around it was hot and sore to the touch. Horne’s mixtures of local plants helped, but was not enough. Red Harvest stubbornly stared at the ground, Vasquez heaved a sigh before continuing, “Chisolm should be back in a few days.” With that declaration, stepped away to finish tending the camp.

Billy managed to convince Horne to free his arm, despite the disapproving look. Red Harvest had not moved from where Vasquez left him sitting. Billy swallowed the uncomfortable knot in his throat before walking over.

Before he could try and start and awkward conversation, Red Harvest surprised him by speaking first, “I’m sorry.” The young man’s voice was soft and forlorn, almost childlike. It clashed horribly with the hulking physique. 

“For what?”

“Your arm,” Red Harvest looked at him for the first time. “It was not injured, when I left.”

“It’s fine.” Billy said to him as he told everyone in the group a hundred times. An awkward silence prevailed for another moment. Billy cleared his throat, “Let’s get you some food.” Red Harvest shook his head, turning down the bowl Billy was about to fill. He managed to get a hold of his knife and started whittling new arrows.

“Be careful, son” Horne said, watching Red Harvest’s hand shake. The Indian’s eyes flicked up at him in acknowledgement but he continued working. He had almost finished the second shaft before the knife slipped out of his hand and clattered a couple feet away. Leaning over to retrieve it, Red Harvest was stopped by Vasquez and a cup of broth was forced in his hands. The Mexican frowned when it was set aside after only a couple sips. Before long Red Harvest was asleep again after less than an hour of being up.

“He is stubborn,” Horne observed.

“Stubborn enough to hold out for the others?” Billy questioned. There was still the chance Red Harvest could die before the others returned or that they could not get supplies in town.

“They will ride hard,” Vasquez said, “be back quick.”

As the days past, Red Harvest deteriorated. He appear to wither before their eyes and the others were trying their best to keep him cool. But he slept fitfully, the pain keeping from truly resting. The bruising beneath his eyes were becoming more prominent, almost by the hour it seemed.

In desperation Horne had recruited Billy to help find a certain plant. The tracker had yet to find it. He was certain that it would be helpful, even though Chisolm’s group should be expected soon. Vasquez fidgeted, he had stayed in camp to care for Red Harvest, but now had nothing to do as the young man dozed. He sat by the fire, lightly taping his heel with nervous energy.

A stick snapped behind, Vasquez tried to turn to the noise only to have a blade shoved under his chin. Still seated, Vasquez awkwardly looked up to a strange man.

“Well, if it isn’t Vasquez, The Mexican murderer,” The man hooted. “Is it my birthday?”

“That it is,” Another man said, appearing to the side. The man held a copy of his warrant in his hands. “You’re one dumb fella, being so close to the office.”

Vasquez cursed himself. Warrant officers, probably on their way to town to either cash in or get the names of new quarries. He cursed himself for being so stupid to not have his guns having set then to the side after cleaning them earlier. He cursed himself for becoming so lax in the familiarity of this camp.

“Whose this?” The second man said, walking out of Vasquez’s line of sight where Red Harvest lay.

“He’s got nothing to do with this,” Vasquez growled. He whipped around at the sound of a pained grunt, uncaring that the blade cut into his jaw. “Back off, cabrón,” He growled, wincing when the first man grabbed him by the chair. The other man ignored him, digging his toe into Red Harvest’s side.

“This is a interesting mix, an injun and a Mexican.”

“Kill him and let’s get five hundred dollars”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation via Google.  
> ** Necesitas medicina- you need medicine
> 
> Sorry for the delay, I had a bit of writer's block and had life getting in the way. Please let me know what you think.


	5. Chapter 5

His thoughts stuttered through his mind, trying to think of something. Vasquez could feel the blood from his chin running down his neck and staining his shirt. Red Harvest’s brow furrowed from the prodding, but did not wake. The man behind him, who was several years younger than his companion, probably around Red Harvest’s age, still had a good grip in his hair. The hunter standing menacingly over the unconscious man was older than anyone there. The two were probably father and son, guessing by their similar appearances. The men were shaggy and dirty. Their clothes were worn and old, almost the exact opposite of the well-dressed Chisolm. They were probably just head hunters, looking at men on the warrant papers like they were faces of playing cards. Judging by the state of them, hopefully not very good ones.

“Wait,” Vasquez said as the older man opposite him began drawing his knife. “I’ll go,” he said, catching both of the hunters’ off guard. “I’ll go with you, nice and easy, no trouble. But leave him be.” It wasn’t a great plan, not a plan at all really. If he fought the man holding him, the partner would kill his invalid friend. But if he could get the men away from Red Harvest, Vasquez would have a better chance of getting the upper hand without Red Harvest from being caught in the cross fire.

The bounty hunters weighed Vasquez desperate offer with a look between them, considering it. The man behind him chuckled, “Well that’s a first one, ain’t it?” 

“Sure is” His companion agreed, Vasquez had a slight sliver of hope because the man straighten and resheathed his knife. “Why walk into a noose for this waste?” he asked, toeing Red Harvest with a holey shoe.

“Does it matter? Deal or no?” the hunters agreed and soon Vasquez had his hands bound behind him. Red Harvest lay quietly, still unaware of the intruders.

“Tell us why, you want us to let him alone?” The boy asked, jerking the arm he had in his grip as they are about to leave the camp, quarry complacent.

Vasquez huffed, distracted in trying to think of his next move once they are away. He had two days from Bronze Banks to get free and with luck they may just amble into Chisolm and the others. “Mi amigo,” he said firmly, looking the elder in the eye. His heart skipped when the man smirked and drew his knife. “No,” Vasquez shouted as the man stepped toward Red Harvest. Vasquez fought the son’s restraining grip.

Still fighting, Vasquez spat vicious curses as the knife lifted. The light reflecting on the side of the sharp edge. It surged downward, only to be caught before it could pierce flesh. Red Harvest growled as his arms shook with the effort of holding off the blade. Both of the bounty hunters shouted curses of their own, while Vazquez fell silent in shock. Red Harvest twisted, flinging the bounty hunter over his body and into the low burning fire. 

The man shrieked at the heat and when his companion moved to help, Vasquez threw his weight into him. They plowed into the brush with the force. Rolling a few feet, Vasquez scrambled to his feet, barely managing it with his hands tied and ducked behind a tree as the hunter shot a couple rounds into the bark. He could hear the man stomp forward and he ran back for the next tree, the wood splintering in his face as the gun went off again. Vasquez still hear the man, who had attempted to kill Red Harvest, screaming in pain.

Revolver: 3 bullets spent, 3 more left

Another shot sent him running for the next cover, Vasquez jumps a fallen log and tripped as he ducked an echoing shot. With the loss of footing he lands heavily on his front, the breath forced out of his body and dirt and leaves sticking to the blood on his neck. Rolling on to his back, Vasquez ineffectively shuffles backwards, pushing with his feet as the bounty hunter approached with a menacing grimace.

“Good thing you’re worth just as much dead, fucking bastard” The man says as the barrel was pointed at the prone man. Vasquez flinched at the sound of that last damning shot, only to watch the bounty hunter collapse with a bullet to the head.

Twisting around, wincing as the move pulled the cut on his jaw, Vasquez watched as his companions he hasn’t seen in days, ride up with shock on their faces. Goodnight reloading his Winchester rifle, as Faraday rode right up to him. The Irishman jumped to the ground before Jack had fully stopped, with a surprising amount of grace considering his bad leg.

Vasquez looked up to Chisolm’s alarmed face, “Red” was all he needed to say to get the man going toward camp. Goodnight nodded to Faraday, ensuring he had the Mexican in hand before following. Vasquez winced as his bonds were cut and Faraday helped him up, shushing his questions and batting at the hand that probes his wound as he approached the man’s fiery stallion. 

Faraday’s horse was a dour creature, ready to bite and kick anyone, sometimes even his owner if the man wasn’t moving fast enough with feed or pulled the girth too tight. But Vasquez had a way with horses, the patience, and time over the past few months to gain some trust. Quickly, both mounted, they ride back together. 

Vasquez prays that he didn’t get the boy, his friend, killed. Just for being his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sorry for the long delay and the short chapter. I was finishing my pre-clinical studies and moving back into the country and preparing to move again for my final year of vet school (AHH!!). And I noticed a bit of a hiccup with the direction I was headed, which lead me to Writer's Block Lane.  
> Not a lot of Red in this chapter, but it will come back around. It may be a while until I get a chance to update again, but I think I have think back in a good direction.


	6. Chapter 6

As time passed, Red Harvest only notice primitive feelings. He was hot. He was tired. He can’t remember the last time he ate. It didn’t matter as he wasn’t hungry at all, just the thought of food was nauseating. He knew the others were worried. He could see it in Billy’s posture as he worked around camp. He could see it in Horne’s eyes as the man bathed his face in cool water, trying to combat his fever. He could see Vasquez’s anxiety as the man constantly looked for the rest of the seven.

He was going to die. Red Harvest was not afraid of death. He would be welcomed by his ancestors for the battles he has fought. He found his path, but he would be sad to leave the fellows he has meet along the way behind. But Red Harvest was content.

He was not content with the yelling. Red Harvest could hear Vasquez yelling curses as he drifted back to the surface of consciousness. The Mexican was angry, but Red could not figure out why. The tone made his breath speed up and his heart pump. Something was wrong. Red Harvest kept his eyes closed as he heard a knee land heavily near his head. A wisp of air brushed his face and Red Harvest opened his eyes to a blade above him.

His arms snapped up and stopped the descent. But he was weak and his arms shook with the strain and the blade started to come closer to him. It became worse when the man leaned his upper body over the blade, using his weight to force it down. Red twisted his body, crying out like the man above him as he hit the fire, his stitches tearing with the move. Red Harvest struggled to his hands and knees, feeling the fresh blood pour down his side, as his attacker continued to roll and shriek on the ground. Vasquez was not in the camp, but he could hear shooting nearby. The horses screamed in terror at the noise and smell of burning flesh.

“Fucking bastard,” a strangled voice shouted. Red Harvest turned to see the hunter had recovered somewhat from the fire, though his coat still smolder. “I’m going to gut you,” he continued, as he struggled toward the Indian. Red Harvest crawled away, his tomahawk lay a few feet away, laying on top of his pack. His weakness was staggering, sweat poured into his eyes and obscured his vision.

Red Harvest reached for his weapon, only to be dragged back by a hand gripping his ankle. He cried out as he fell. He rolled, kicking with his free foot yelling a choked war cry. He pushed his arm up, keeping the man at bay as he reached with his other hand. Fumbling for a couple seconds, Red Harvest got a sure grip on familiar wooden handle before he slammed it into the hunter’s skull. Dropping the man dead on top of him.

The dead weight of the body might as well been a mountain for all of his ability to remove it. Red Harvest was not sure how long he lay trapped, struggling to breath, though was probably only a moment or two before the pressure was lifted and fingers pressed hard at his neck.

“Oh lord, have mercy,” a whisper floated down to him. Red Harvest coughed at the force on his throat. It eased off, followed by twin sighs of relief. Red Harvest cracked his eyes open to Sam gazing at him.

“Can you hear me, son?” The warrant officer asked, gently cupping his cheek. But Red Harvest only starred at him, unable to use his voice. Only groaning when Goody pushed a handkerchief into his old bullet wound.

“Is he alive,” He heard Vasquez shouting.

“Yes.”

“He’s opened his wound again.”

“Grab the bandages out of my saddlebags.”

Voices carried all over him and then faded as he did. When Red Harvest was next aware he was lying on a bed, a light breeze was gently blowing from a broken window. “There you are,” Sam said softly, leaning over him.

Red Harvest stared up at him, having not the will or the energy to voice his questions. But Sam appeared to know his thought and spoke without promting. “We moved, Billy found an old hunting cabin. It’s a bit rough, but works well enough.”

“How-” Red Harvest struggled to speak, his voice rough and throat dry. “How long?” he rasped.

“Three days, since the hunter.” Red Harvest faded from consciousness again.

It was another week before Red Harvest could leave the bed and shuffle to the main part of the cabin. It was small and cramped with their numbers. The medicine from town and some yarrow that Horne had found helped tipped the tide of Red Harvest persistent fever. It had broken, but left him weak.

The others walked around him as if he were glass about to crumble. Though they assisted with any of his needs without hesitation. Normally Red Harvest would chaff at the coddling, but something was off with the others. They walked as if they were shamed, barely meeting his eyes and Vasquez had barely spoken five words to him since he woke, insisting on more firewood needs to be cut. Red Harvest had seen Faraday try to engage Vasquez in a card game, only to end in them a whispered argument when brushed off.

After another few days of tension and healing, Red Harvest had had enough. For all their claims of age and wisdom, his companions were acting like fools. As if they were at fault for his injury and illness. Annoyed at his companions, dare he say friends, Red stands rather forcefully, his chair scrapping against the floor. 

“Something wrong,” Goody asks, looking up from the book he was reading. But Red Harvest ignores him, shuffling out the front door. He stumbles a step, causing Goodnight, along with Sam and Billy, the only others in the house to stand and follow Red Harvest like lost child. He continues past Faraday on the porch, brushing off their calls as he stepped heavily down the stairs. His injures pull at the movement, the most he’s done for some time and the first time he’s been beyond the small porch. He sees Vasquez and Horne drawn from the far side of the cabin by the noise of the others.

Red pushes off Faraday’s hand when the gambler reaches for him and continues to walk to a shade copse of trees a little ways away from the house. He sits with difficultly, once he’s settled he sees the others have gathered around. Red Harvest closes his eyes, taking a deep breath of the crisp air.

He looks to the men around him. His friends, his family, those that would risk themselves for him. Red Harvest smiles.

“Thank you”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience. Enjoy

**Author's Note:**

> Red Harvest needs some love.


End file.
